


Be With You A While

by valenstyne



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-12
Updated: 2013-05-12
Packaged: 2017-12-11 14:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/799683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valenstyne/pseuds/valenstyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been two weeks since the last time he touched Quatre, two weeks of touring with the circus, and no matter how much Trowa loves his job—and he does love his job—two weeks without Quatre is too long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be With You A While

Trowa opens his eyes from a dream of gentle hands and blue-green eyes and blinks at the familiar figure silhouetted in the bedroom doorway. “Quatre?”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.” Quatre turns off the hall light and pulls the door shut behind him with a quiet _click_. “Go back to sleep.”

“No, it’s okay.” Trowa props his chin up on his hand, watching Quatre move across the room, illuminated only by the dim light spilling through the window from the street. It’s never completely dark on the colonies, and Trowa is glad of that—he hasn’t seen Quatre for two weeks, except on the small screen of a vidphone. “I was dreaming about you,” he says.

“Really?” Quatre’s face is in shadow, but Trowa can tell he’s smiling as he slips out of his jacket and unbuttons his shirt. “Does that mean you missed me as much as I missed you?”

For a long moment Trowa can’t find the words to answer, too transfixed by Quatre’s movements as he undresses, baring long expanses of pale skin that catch and hold the light from outside. Quatre always seems shiny, bright like a new coin, and it takes Trowa’s breath away.

“Trowa?” Quatre steps to the side of the bed, naked now, and kneels down, runs one hand over Trowa’s back.

“I missed you,” Trowa says hoarsely. He’s hard, his cock throbbing, pressed between his stomach and the mattress. It’s been two weeks since the last time he touched Quatre, two weeks of touring with the circus, and no matter how much Trowa loves his job—and he does love his job—two weeks without Quatre is too long. He reaches out to stroke Quatre’s cheek, warm skin soft under his fingers, brushes his thumb over Quatre’s lower lip.

“What time did you get home?” Quatre asks, his hand moving further down Trowa’s back, pushing the sheets aside, a smile playing at his mouth again. “I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

Trowa’s breath hitches as Quatre’s hand ghosts over the back of his thigh. “Not too long.” That’s not completely true; he’s been waiting two weeks for this, and, not wanting to wait any longer, he curls his hand into Quatre’s hair and brings him in for a kiss. “But long enough,” he adds when they part.

“I can tell,” Quatre says, pulling away and standing up. Trowa makes a noise of disapproval at the loss of contact and Quatre laughs. “Just a minute,” he says, and Trowa turns his head to watch him walk around the bed, tantalizingly far out of reach, before finally sitting down on Trowa’s other side.

“You could have just told me to move over,” Trowa says, letting his gaze drift from the glints of light dancing in Quatre’s hair, down Quatre’s slim torso, into his lap. He’s hard too, and the sight makes Trowa’s mouth water.

“You look too comfortable,” Quatre says. “And besides, I like you like this.” He runs his hand over Trowa’s back again, fingering the ridge of spine as Trowa arches into his touch. “Well, I like you _any_ way, really.”

“I like you, too,” Trowa says, shifting his hips uncomfortably. Quatre’s delicate caresses are doing nothing to ease the ache of his arousal. “And I want you.”

Quatre laughs again, sweet with surprise. Even now, Trowa’s bluntness still sometimes catches him off guard. “Why, I’m flattered,” he says. “Just like this, or—?”

Trowa doesn’t need to hear the rest of the question. “Like this,” he says, spreading his knees to make his point perfectly clear. Quatre evidently understands, as he turns immediately to open the drawer of the bedside table. Trowa puts his head down, heartbeat quickening with anticipation, his own breath loud in his ears. The mattress dips slightly as Quatre moves to kneel between his legs, and then there are two slick fingers inside Trowa, spreading him open, making him gasp.

Quatre presses his other hand into the small of Trowa’s back, not holding him down, just steadying. “Shh, shh,” he murmurs, pulling his fingers out, pushing them back in, twisting and curving. Trowa clutches the sheets and tries to say _yes_ or _more_ or _now_ , but all he manages is a whimper, words beyond his grasp. Quatre understands that too, takes his hand away and enters Trowa slowly, filling him up, fitting his body to Trowa’s like a missing piece falling into place. 

Trowa bites his lip, struggling to hold himself in check as Quatre moves inside him, unhurried and deliberate. He shifts, arches to meet Quatre’s thrusts, and it’s perfect, everything Trowa has been missing for the past two weeks. Quatre presses his mouth to Trowa’s shoulder, whispering “I love you, I love you,” his hands on Trowa’s hips, fingers like burning brands against Trowa’s skin. 

It’s not much longer before Quatre’s rhythm starts to change, his control slipping. Trowa reaches one arm back to squeeze Quatre’s hand, says raggedly “Come for me,” and Quatre does, crying out softly and shaking, clinging to Trowa as though Trowa is the only thing keeping him from flying apart. 

Afterwards he slides off, panting, pushes at Trowa’s shoulder until Trowa rolls onto his side so Quatre can palm his cock, stroke him with still-slippery fingers. Trowa thrusts into his grip, heat tightening low in his stomach, pressure building and building and finally spilling over, release so complete it washes everything else away.

Trowa’s not quite sure how long it is before he drifts back to awareness, hazy and warm and happy. He can hear water running in the bathroom, and a moment later Quatre is sliding back into the bed, cleaning him up with a damp washcloth, careful on his oversensitive skin. Trowa opens his eyes, blinks Quatre’s shadowy figure into focus. “Hey,” he says, smiling sleepily.

“Hey,” Quatre says, returning the smile. He leans down, presses a kiss to the corner of Trowa’s mouth. “Welcome home.”


End file.
